Chapter 26 #2
His words are measured, but I know him too well to miss the hesitation at the end. Something about this night, about letting me go, tears through him as much as it does me. His mask is flawless to the others, but to me, his cracks are blinding.
My fingers tighten around the tangible mask on my own face as I adjust it, the quartz edges biting into my skin.
It feels awkward and weighted, like a shield I’m staring out from behind, and the unease that’s settled in my chest only grows.
“And the signal?” I ask, hating the slight tremor in my voice and praying the others don’t notice.
Raven’s gaze snaps to mine. Somehow, his amber eyes soften without losing their heat. His focus pins me, holds me in place, as if to say all the things he cannot.
“You’ll know it when you see it,” he promises, the words carrying an undertone that only I catch.
I search his expression, fighting the growing ache in my chest, wondering what that promise hides. Behind me, Nyssa shifts, Myna stirs, and the others remain oblivious to the storm threatening to break between us.
But I feel it—everything he cannot say. All I want to do is grasp it, hold it, tell him that I’ll be waiting for him, always. I push those impulses aside and nod, forcing myself to turn back toward the door.
Each step away from him feels like a splinter lodging deeper in my chest, but I force my breathing steady. For tonight, I must wear my mask as much as my gown.
If I fall apart now, there will be nothing left to save.
“Are you ready to go in?” Nyssa whispers, sympathy shining in her eyes as she adjusts my mask.
“We’d better not put it off any longer.” My words are strong, but my smile trembles at the corners of my mouth.
With a deep breath, I center myself and give a final nod to the footman who waits for us in front of the ballroom doors where my fate awaits. I bite my lip as he inhales deeply and booms my name.
“Princess Aella Sotiría of the Sorrows!”
The projection of his voice obliterates any last chance I had to run and hide. With an imperial tilt to my chin, I step through the grand doors onto a landing overlooking the ballroom.
The sight takes my breath away, freezing my feet in place like I’m one of the many marble statues that adorn the halls of the palace.
On either side of me, staircases curve down toward the revelry below, their steps lined with lords and ladies in elegant attire, each one looking more beautiful than the last. The music of a hundred instruments swells to fill the room, reverberating through me like a thousand prayers whispered in unison.
Chandeliers of glimmering auras twinkle above a crowded dance floor, setting the golden veins in the white marble walls alight, like rivers of molten flame.
The guests below are all masked and garbed in elaborate gowns of embroidered taffeta and silk, adorned with sparkling jewels and feathers, dancing along to the hauntingly beautiful music that echoes throughout the hall.
Despite the grandeur of the scene before me, I don’t miss the vipers in the nest.
This is a poisoned court, full of poisonous people.
Sly eyes beneath elaborate masks watch, cruel and calculating, as I make my way down the stairs.
Faux smiles and greetings are thrown out as I pass.
I return them with my own.
They may be serpents in this court, but I am not just a songbird.
I’m a bird of prey.
When I reach the ballroom floor, the crowd parts before me, masked figures curling away as a man approaches.
His muscular torso is wrapped in a jacket that looks like it’s been crafted from fine threads of pure gold.
It hugs his muscular arms, trimmed in silver embroidery with ornate silver buttons trailing down the middle.
His pants are made from the same fabric, molding to his leanly muscled thighs.
Sepia eyes stare at me from behind an elaborate mask embroidered with golden thread and yellow diamonds.
His hands are heavy with stacks of rings, and golden hoops glimmer along the arches of his ears.
Even with a mask, he’s easy to recognize. Only the Prince of Eretria is arrogant enough to be dripping in this much gold. And me, of course. But I had a team of spies conspiring to make us match.
I do my best not to roll my eyes at the thought as he comes to a stop in front of me.
“Princess,” he purrs.
“Prince,” I respond with a coy smile.
“May I have this dance?”
He holds a gold-laden hand toward me, and I eye it for a moment before placing my hand in his.
“You may.”
I fucking hate court politics.
I throw a quick glance over my shoulder at Nyssa. She returns it with a slight nod and melts into the crowd as Keres guides me onto the dance floor. Tonight, she’ll be monitoring the royal family while I watch the prince.
Without relinquishing his grip on mine, Keres’s other hand settles against the small of my back, the pressure just shy of controlling.
He moves with the kind of precision that demands attention, his steps fluid, his posture commanding.
The music swells around us, but the tension between us is sharper, cutting through the lilting melody like a blade.
He tilts his head, a predator studying its prey, before his lips part in a too-sharp smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Do you know why I kept two of you in the final trial?” he asks, his tone almost light, but the cruelty in his amusement is unmistakable.
My pulse stutters, but I keep my voice steady. “Because unpredictability makes for a more compelling story?”
His laugh is quiet, more a huff of superiority than genuine amusement.
“A compelling story, yes. But no. I don’t leave decisions to fate, Aella.
” He pulls me a fraction closer, just enough for the pressure of his hand to feel like a warning.
“I wanted to ensure the decision was mine. Power demands choice, and I enjoy the luxury of having all the options laid before me.”
The meaning behind his words sinks in slowly, like poison working its way through my veins. My throat tightens, my heart hammering in my chest.
“Lydia,” I begin, carefully measuring my words, “is quite the competitor.”
Keres’s smile doesn’t falter, but there’s a flicker in his expression—something cold, almost dismissive. “She plays her role well enough. But in some things, possessing the strength to break the rules and refusing to be predictable are far more compelling.”
My smile wavers, and I struggle to hold it steady.
“And have you decided which you value more? Strength or…pliability?” I ask, my voice soft, a deliberate gamble.
His gaze darkens, the tilt of his head reflective, thoughtful. “I think,” he murmurs, his tone unhurried, almost languid, “something pliable is already willing to bend, but the real excitement lies in testing the strength of something solid to see when, or if, it will break.”
The chill in his words settles deep into my bones, and I wonder fleetingly if he can feel the faint stiffening of my body beneath his hand at my waist. Perhaps he does. Perhaps he delights in it.
The song slows, its last notes hanging in the air as the dancers around us pause.
Keres doesn’t release me immediately, but when he finally steps back, his grip loosens in a way that feels intentional—as though relinquishing something he already owns.
He bows with a grandeur that ensures every watching eye is upon him, but his gaze never leaves mine.
And then he’s gone, retreating into the sea of masked nobles.
I’m rooted in place, my fingers trembling as they brush the fabric of my gown. His words churn inside me, a sickness I can’t shake as I struggle not to wipe the imprint of his touch from my skin.
I grab a cup of wine from a server passing by and smell it subtly to check for poison. When I determine it’s safe, I throw it back, hoping it will settle my fraying nerves.
This was the plan. I should be glad the pieces are falling into place as we intended. But a part of me must have been harboring some small, selfish hope I would lose the trials and be sent home. Keres’s words clip the wings of that hope, trapping it within the cage of despair.
My breaths become thin as the realization settles like a heavy weight on my chest. Fortunately, nobody pays me any notice, their attention captured by a forceful gust of wind rattling against the ballroom windows, causing some of the gathered tycheroi to gasp in alarm.
I return the wine cup to a passing tray, my fingers trembling as I release it. My pulse is thundering, louder than the steps of the dancing couples around me. Keres’s words keep echoing in my mind, poisonous and sharp, strangling my breath as if they have claws.
I force myself to move, step by step, toward the crowd, twisting the ring on my finger just to stop my hands from shaking.
Every movement feels heavier, harder, like I’m sinking into quicksand.
Everything here is calculated, yet I can’t seem to find my footing.
My chest aches as I try to breathe, my shoulders lifting and falling with effort.
“Breathe,” I whisper to myself. “Just breathe.”
I make it a few more steps before a voice rises from the noise, soft yet cutting through, like silk turned to steel. “My cousin is far too interested in you.”
I stop, my composure almost shattering, before turning toward the sound. Relief washes over me as I find Titaia’s familiar figure stepping from the shadows. Her calm scrutiny is like a hand reaching through my fog. I straighten my back, forcing a flicker of confidence back into my expression.
“It’s the gown. It has that effect,” I say, swishing my hips so the precious stones sparkle, scattering tiny shards of light across the marble floor.